


A Feast for the Starving

by Morse_s Child (sherlockstummy)



Series: Werewolf Drabbles [5]
Category: Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Food, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Werewolf AU, empty stomachs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/Morse_s%20Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse leads the hunt with exceptional results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feast for the Starving

Chief Superintendent Strange often had a lot of fun poking at one Chief Inspector Morse. Morse was an old friend of his, and Strange had known him since they both were pups. He knew by now what Morse’s habits were.

Morse liked to keep the wolf hungry. He believed, quite correctly, that the hungrier he was, the less he missed. He had started to ignore his stomach long ago, back when he was still climbing the ranks, and he learned how to keep himself going on the odd squirrel or rabbit once or twice a week.

But no wolf, not even Morse, could stay hungry forever. Eventually, Morse would join the hunt and devour his share of the kill just like every other wolf in the pack. And Strange, having known Morse the longest, could sense when those times were close at hand, when Morse was too hungry to deny himself any longer.

Strange did not dislike Morse. In fact, he missed Morse when they did hunt without him. Morse’s perpetual hunger made him an excellent hunter whose skills far surpassed any of his high-ranking wolves. He’d rather have Morse hunting alone than all of his best wolves in a pack together. Morse’s skills were superior, and his wolf form had not lost much to old age.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Morse knew what to expect when he was summoned to the Chief Super’s office on a designated pack night. (After all, due to the families of the Oxford policemen, Strange couldn’t expect the wolves to come out every night.) And he knew, essentially, what Strange would ask him to do.

Morse kept himself hungry. It kept his human form light and his wolf form superior. He didn’t mind the gnawing ache of hunger; most times, it got him results. Cases were solved faster, and the bellies of deserving pups were filled more quickly. But each transformation was costly, and Morse could only go hungry for so long. Thus, he found himself looking forward to tonight, when he would be guaranteed a share of the pack’s kill.

Even Morse’s human form was fairly trim. Calories burned by the wolf were reflected on the human form. Morse preferred wearing waistcoats to muffle the complaints of a stomach too long denied to remain silent. He was wearing one today, in fact. And he knew it told his superior more than it would tell any random observer.

Strange peered at him over the rims of his spectacles. “You know that the pack meets tonight, Morse.”

“I do, Sir.” Strange was going to take his time; Morse was willing to play along. For now.

One should never taunt a starving wolf.

“You know also that I admire your talents as a hunter.” Strange noted Morse’s slight tip of the head in acknowledgement. “You’re the best hunter I have; that’s the truth of it. I don’t doubt that, even at your age, you could take down a buck all on your own.”

“Kind of you to say, Sir.” Morse smiled thinly. Strange knew he was playing close to the quick. Riling up the starving wolf into a rabid frenzy was what he was hoping for.

A swift knock at his door. Morse turned, startled by the interruption.

“Sir,” it was a PC. “Your tea.”

“Bring it in.” It was Strange’s custom to have tea in his office of a morning. Usually, he would ask Morse if he wanted any, but this time, he deliberately hadn’t.

Morse knew exactly what Strange was doing. He’d done it before, after all. And Morse very rarely obliged Strange by giving him exactly what he expected. His eyes roved over the tea service; a pot with one cup and a plate of warm biscuits. Morse’s nostrils flared; in preparation for the hunt, and eager to get into work as usual, Morse had foregone breakfast. Strange knew this and, in an equal measure, Morse knew he was playing into Strange’s hand. 

That’s why he didn’t mind shifting closer to attention, in deference to a rather noisy complaint from his stomach. Biscuits would hardly satisfy the starving wolf whose nature he shared. Meat and meat alone would do. Morse nearly got lost in a fantasy, a weakness he was not willing to show Strange. But the glint in his superior’s eye told Morse he’d caught the slip in the inspector’s attention. Damn.

“Your point, Sir?” Morse still sounded mostly civil, but he was glaring; a clear warning that Strange shouldn’t push any further.

“You’re a kitten, Morse,” Strange grinned. “Really, you are. What business do you have, trying to glare me down?” Mood jolly, he took a big bite into one of the biscuits and hummed contentedly.

Morse nearly bared his teeth in a snarl before remembering how ridiculous a human would look snarling and he refrained out of propriety. Strange was not going to reduce him to the wild animal he was taunting mercilessly. 

“Sir, I would like to get to work some time before the moon rises.” Morse prompted.  
That was a signal he was reaching the end of Morse’s patience. Strange knew he had better get on with it. He couldn’t resist finishing the biscuit, though, which did earn him a three-second glare of disgust; what Morse knew he could get away with before he earned himself a pinning from a much larger, and heavier, wolf. 

“The point is this, Morse,” Strange busied himself pouring tea. The air was thick as soup between them, all due to a far too empty stomach, tired of being ignored. “I want you on point tonight for the hunt.”

Morse nearly sighed with relief and frustration. He settled for crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight, soundlessly. Finally, Strange had gotten to the point, but only after taking a quick detour to sharpen Morse’s hunger to a fine point. 

The smells of Mrs. Strange’s hearty breakfast permeated the office. If Morse had cared to give into animal instinct and dared to sniff the Chief Superintendent’s jacket, he would have found the scents of a full English coated the fabric. That had been enough to whet his appetite and make the muscles in his stomach clench tightly. Eating in front of him, well. That was a new tactic, and one Morse hoped Strange wouldn’t reprise. It seemed just a tad cruel.

“Okay.” Morse shifted his weight again, lifting his eyes to meet Strange’s, as fierce as he dared to be.

Strange relaxed, as predicted, and made to stand and show Morse to the door.

“But,” Morse went on and saw Strange sit fully in his seat, glaring back at Morse full-steam. “Lewis is my right hand.”

“Always.” Strange agreed and made to heft his bulk again, thinking Morse finished.

Therefore, Morse gained immense pleasure from this unpredictability. “And,” he interjected, raising his head confidently, “Lewis and I eat first.”

Strange frowned, his cheeks burning red with fury. “Morse!”

“Sorry, Sir,” Morse replied in a tone that didn’t sound the least bit sorry at all. “You want me to use my skills to find the pack the largest, juiciest, fattest kill of the season,” (and here, he did not mind further sharpening the point; by now, his hunger was keen enough to commit murder,) “Lewis and I get to satisfy our hunger first.”

A long moment was spent in silence. The two old friends eyed each other up. After a moment, Strange knew Morse would not falter, and he shrugged his shoulders in defeat. Morse, victorious, stood tall with pride. “Fine, fine. It will be as you say. But,” Strange warned, wagging his finger, “it won’t win you any friends among your rank.”

“I hardly need concern myself with ‘friends,’ Sir.” Morse replied flippantly. He left the office and muttered, “Not when I hunger like this.” He stormed through the CID, making his way to his office where Lewis was waiting.

“Morning, S—”

“Save it, please, Lewis,” Morse interrupted him with a hand as he closed the office door and sank into his chair. “God, I feel bloody awful.”

Lewis grinned. “Looking forward to the hunt tonight, eh, Sir?”

“After my meeting with the Chief Super, I can think of nothing else,” Morse groaned, placing his head in his hands. Strange was right; Morse was a kitten, deep down. He was all bark and little bite. And, he thought to himself, very rarely were those bites spent on food. His stomach growled again and Morse longed for four white paws, a full Oxford moon, the feel of cool earth beneath his feet, and the warm weight of dinner in his belly.

Lewis took pity on his superior; he often worried that Morse didn’t get enough to eat, and certainly never as much as he deserved. After all, it was he, and not their alpha, who had to watch Morse scratch desperately at rabbit holes and swallow mice whole. “Coffee, Sir?”

“Extra sugar,” Morse said weakly as Lewis got up. He’d need the energy to get him through the day; the wolf’s keen hunger was only useful under cover of darkness, after all.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

After a long, tiresome day, Morse was glad to climb into his jag just before sundown and loosen his tie. Lewis climbed in beside him. By now, they were both run ragged; their latest case had them up and down from Oxford to London and back again, looking for answers. Strange even had the courtesy to look chastened when Morse, tired and dizzy, had told his superior that no leads had been found.

As Morse drove towards the outskirts of the city, out to where the land was still vast and wild and green, Lewis piped up, “I still can’t understand how—”

“Shh,” Morse said, not unkindly. “In the morning, Lewis. I’m hungry.” Something in his eye glinted, something mischievous, and Lewis grinned. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye. Fair starved, Sir.” It’s true they hadn’t had time for lunch today. Lewis was looking forward to filling his belly with fresh meat almost as much as Morse was.

“Good. You know I’ve told you hunger makes for good noses.”   
“Aye. But not all the time.”

Morse chuckled softly. “No, I imagine you wouldn’t fancy that. You’d have the Chief Super on your back, taunting you with a full English and God knows what else.”

Lewis laughed. He could, now. Morse’d had the day to prepare for the hunt. Keen hunger made him no easier a boss, but it did give him the cleverness of a fox. Lewis enjoyed it immensely.

Once at the open fields, Morse parked the jag among the other cars and climbed out, safely storing his keys in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Come on, Lewis,” he said eagerly, already beginning to divest his clothes.

Lewis smiled and did the same. Darkness was falling fast now the moon had set, and, without any silver on, Lewis could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand upright. He looked at Morse over the hood of the jag. In the soft light of the full moon, Morse looked at peace. And then Lewis was lost to his transformation.

Morse felt the wolf come on fast. He could feel his body changing; muscles shifting, posture dipping, hands and feet becoming paws with four toes. Morse howled in triumph as he fully emerged a wolf. He stepped around the familiar jag at Lewis’ Geordie-tinged cry and affectionately greeted his sergeant by nuzzling the side of his head. Lewis responded by licking underneath his chin, a sign of submission that was more out of habit and courtesy than necessity. Morse was not one of those inspectors, or wolves, that needed to constantly assert themselves over the pups. If his stomach weren’t as barren as the deserts of Australia, he could name a few.

“Come on, Lewis!” Morse barked, going from trot to steady canter. “You’re my right, as usual!”

“Aye, Sir!” Lewis barked back, flowing easily into step with Morse, at his right, as usual. After not eating all day, his stomach was growling and clenching painfully, made all the worse by the hunger of transformation. As they reached the ret of the pack, he couldn’t help stifling a whimper and licking himself down. Morse crooned in sympathy, butting heads. Lewis thanked him with a soft yip, but felt guilty. Morse’s hunger must have been consuming by now. He wondered how Morse could care about anything but food.

The wolves were chattering amongst themselves, mostly about food. Morse felt dizzy, as if he were floating above the pack communication. He really had done himself a disservice by going hungry this long; he felt old and limp, truly like a kitten. He was only pulled out of his misery by Lewis’ whimper. Morse consoled him; he knew his pup was hungry. They’d had a long day. He licked at Lewis’ head and cheeks to keep his spirits up, earning him a head butt. Morse butted back.

When Strange howled, the pack howled with him, and fell silent. Unlike this morning, Strange got right down to business; he was hungry, too. “Morse and Lewis are on point,” he announced; Morse and Lewis pushed their way through the crowd. Usually, Morse would’ve been scoffed at, bitten, pushed about by the wave of high-ranking wolves. Not this time. When Morse was looking after their stomachs, he was everyone’s friend.

Once Morse had the floor, so to speak, he barked quick orders: “You’re to follow my instructions and do as I tell you. Our alpha has allowed Lewis and I to feed first.” There were groans here and there after that, and Morse noted his young pup looked surprised. “Oh, would you prefer I refrained from leading the hunt?” Morse piped up. The wolves fell silent. “No? Good.” Morse turned and butted Lewis to turn him, too. He closed his eyes and lifted his head towards the wind, taking long, deep sniffs of the crisp night air.

After only a minute, his nose picked up the scent of something wonderful. Morse’s mouth watered and his empty stomach growled loudly. “Mmm,” he hummed in delight, “smell that, Lewis?”

Lewis sniffed and his eyes grew wide. “Herculean boar!”

“A suitable feast for the starving,” Morse licked his chops. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Aye!” Lewis agreed.

“Right!” Morse turned and bounded off towards the source of the scent. “Strange,” he commanded through pack telepathy, “take Darriger, Heiss, and Flown and fan them to the edges. They’re our bulkiest wolves.”

A couple of the wolves, mostly inspectors, asked about what their quarry was. It was dizzying to Morse, who simply snapped a quick response: “Herculean boar!” before shutting off general communications as pack telepathy were flooded with images of, indeed, a beast of epic proportions. Herculean boars could weigh up to a ton and were over ten feet in length. A single young boar could feed a starving wolf pack easily. Morse couldn’t tell much about his prey yet…but it certainly wasn’t young. 

“Keep thin wolves in the center.” Morse commanded. “Regroup if necessary. Keep stocky wolves on the wings. Keep fanning. We’re not far.”

There was one other reason, Strange thought as he ran, why he liked the scrawny white wolf to head the pack during a hunt. Only one in three wolf hunts are successful; Morse held about 73% steady success rate. He was an elite hunter.

“Sir,” a welcome Geordie twang entered his thoughts. “Why me? I mean, I’m honored…but it won’t do ye any favors.”

Morse knew what he was talking about. “You deserve it, Lewis. Really. You’ve worked hard this week, and you put up with my temper. I don’t need to make friends.” He snorted. “If I wanted to rub elbows with these idiots, I could play silly buggers at their social clubs!” Lewis laughed. “Their loyalty is only won by what’s in their stomach on any given night. Your loyalty is the one I’d rather keep.”

Lewis moved closer so that he and Morse were touching as they ran. “Thank you, Sir. And, for the record, I don’t mind your temper. You’re hungry all the time; I’d be grumpy, too, if there wasn’t a thing in me stomach!”

Morse winced. “Don’t remind me; that last mile really took a toll.”

Lewis pulled back. “Sir? Are you all right?”

“I’ll be better when my belly’s full.” Morse growled, surging forward. Lewis followed close behind.

“Sir!” It was Rye, one of the best WPCs of their bunch, and an excellent tracker. “We must be getting close! Middle flank just ran over a hoofprint.”

“As did I.” Morse hummed. “How far apart, would you say?”

“Five feet? Hard to tell, Sir.”

Morse ran calculations in his head. A huge animal. “Fans close in. Mind you keep your wits about you.” Herculean boars were not swift animals; their great bulk would not allow it. They relied on their size and their horns to keep predators at bay. A sizeable werewolf pack, however, could take down a Herculean boar simply by outsmarting it.

The smell now was intense. They were behind it, just down wind of it. “Fans, spread out. Try to encircle the beast. Middle flank, with me. Lewis.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Strange.”

“Yes?”

“Heiss.”

“Yes?”

“Close the fans in around the legs. It’s an older animal, limping badly in the back left leg. Make that your target, Strange.”

“Understood.”

“Heiss, try to weaken the skin around the neck. We’ll need all the strong jaws we can get to handle this boar.”

“Got it.”

“Middle flank, fan out. Lewis, we’re going under. Ready?”

“Aye!”

“Go!” Morse took off, weaving between the animal’s feet and running under. At intervals, he jumped and bit down hard at the soft underbelly, feeling blood soak into his mouth. What would have normally disgusted him only fueled the fire as the boar bellowed in pain. Morse glanced behind to see that Lewis was biting into his spots as well, and coming away with tufts of hair and patches of skin for his pains. 

Lewis spit them out; the good stuff was inside. “What do we do when we get to the front?”

“Go back under.” Morse directed, circling around as they reached the front of the beast. Middle flank’s thin wolves would distract the boar while left fan worked on the boar’s weak leg and right fan worked at its neck. “Bite in the same spots. Look, it’s bleeding badly.” Morse licked the blood from his chops. “We’ll be able to eat in no time.”

“And when it falls?”

“I hope it will fall right.” Morse flashed an image at Lewis of the great beast toppling over. “Left fan’s working at its game leg.” Morse jumped up and bit hard. The boar writhed in pain. If Morse weren’t so hungry, he’d feel bad for the poor beast.

“It’s so big!” Lewis exclaimed suddenly.

Morse nodded. “There’ll be more than enough for all wolves, regardless of rank, to eat their fill.” 

“Oh, aye,” Lewis crooned, “I’ll sleep well tomorrow!”

Morse laughed. “Cheers to a heavy belly and a good day’s rest!”

“I’d drink to that if I didn’t have paws!” Lewis crowed.

Morse observed the boar’s legs shaking. “Move all assault to the left side!” He commanded, making sure Lewis got out from under the boar before he came out himself. Covered in blood and sweat, Morse took a moment to catch his breath, shaking his head as swirls of gray entered his vision; naturally, werewolves see in full color.

“Sir?” Lewis trotted over to him. 

“I’m hungry, Lewis,” Morse said by way of explanation. “Starving, actually. Pushed to the limits of comfort.”

Lewis nudged Morse until the older wolf rested his head across Lewis’ back. Lewis kept watch while Morse took a second. Finally, the white wolf raised his head again. “Come on, Lewis.” He and the brown wolf sprinted forward and lunged, jaws bared, at the weakened side of the boar. With a great bellow and a thud that shook the trees, the Herculean boar went down.

Morse hungrily cut through the thick hide of the boar with his teeth until he found the fatty insides of the boar. “Lewis!” He called. The young wolf bounded over to him. “Eat with me,” Morse encouraged. Lewis grinned and began tearing away at the good meat hungrily. Morse, unable to resist any longer, tore away chunks of rich, red meat and gulped them down as fast as he could go. The fresh meat was slippery and warm and easily slid down his throat into his waiting stomach. 

Morse ate until his stomach swelled with food and he couldn’t swallow any more. He muscled down a few more bites for good measure and then trotted off to let Strange and then the others have their fill. Lewis, who had finished before his superior, looked as full and sleepy as Morse felt. Lewis greeted Morse with a sleepy nuzzle.

“You look cozy,” he observed.

Morse yawned. “You know, I always tell myself I’ll never eat this much again…but somehow, I always do.”

Lewis licked a stray bit of blood from around Morse’s snout. “You deserve every bite, Sir.”

Morse chuckled, butting at Lewis. “You’re buttering me up.”

“Is it working?” Lewis asked hopefully, yawning loudly.

Morse nodded. “Come on.”

They walked away from the commotion. Morse made himself comfortable at the base of a mossy tree and slowly laid down, shifting to accommodate his full stomach. “Well, I certainly feel like the job’s been well done.”

“Same here.” Lewis yawned again.

Morse curled slightly and rested his head on his paws. Lewis lay beside him, his back against Morse’s stomach.

“Comfortable?” Morse asked.

“Mm.” Lewis lay fully on his side, his head resting against Morse’s paws. “You?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Good.” Lewis closed his eyes. “Night, Sir.”

“Good night, Lewis.”

Morse waited until Lewis had dozed off before he fell asleep as well.

And if with the dawn came the muzzy feeling of a filling and proper meal still left from the night before, well, one who starves deserves a feast, doesn’t he?


End file.
